


and it went like

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Martino Rametta, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 08:43:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16636655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Marti is too distracted by kisses to learn how to play the piano.





	and it went like

**Author's Note:**

> I have one (1) fear and it’s Nico never playing the piano for Marti. So here is me trying to be proactive about disappointment. Also, I've never considered myself a very fluffy writer, but with these two I just can’t help it?? They are so soft. Help.

When a thought blends from subconscious to conscious, it might take a minute in limbo to gather your bearings.

Like dreaming of wading into a lake, knee deep, tadpoles nibbling your shins, only to wake up with twisted legs — tingly and asleep from the circulation being cut off. Or of reaching out to grab something, hand gripping the sheets in a jolt when your eyes open.

For Marti, it’s a melody that bridges the gap.

He spends a sleepy second uncertain, unable to open his eyes even though his brain has already registered _awake._

The dream he had is slipping from him. He was in a hall. A theater? No. The broken rubble from the dilapidated school where Nico performed the occupy concert. No. The abandoned building where they first kissed. No—

He can’t remember. Wherever it was, there was music. And now, here, sunlight streaming through the pale yellow curtains. Music.

Soft, slow, dreamy music. So dreamy Marti spends another second wondering if he’s actually awake.

He pats the bed beside him, Nico’s bed. No Nico.

So he stretches, rubs his eyes, rolls his wrists and ankles. Readies himself to stand. His senses return to him one by one: The smell of coffee. The soft sheets. The stucco ceiling. And still, the sound of music.

It grows louder as he rolls out of the bed and rounds it, pulling open the already cracked French doors from Nico’s room to the rest of the house.

Where Nico sits. Of course he does. On the bench in front of the aged, shiny, red-brown upright piano just outside. Fingers so soft over the keys; Marti doesn’t know how anyone can play so quiet. It sounds cheery. And warm. Classical and timeless. If sunshine were a sound. And yet still... unlike something heard in church. And more than just background music at a cafe. 

It’s not the first time he’s ever heard Nico play. (But he’s also not counting the handful of times Nico has on-the-spot written jaunty, catchy songs that pointedly make fun of Marti. Complete with lyrics he has no shame bellowing. Full of love, of course, and they do make Marti smile. There’s the one about being a _boring gay._ The one about the boy who always follows the rules. But those don’t count. The worst is when they get stuck in Marti’s head and he sings them to himself.)

But this is different. Serious but not somber. Intricate but not arduous. Time has gone into practicing it. Describing it as beautiful would be the understatement of the year. Marti knows it’s new because if he’s ever heard it before, he’d remember.

He leans against the yellow glass pane of the doorframe.

Nico must not notice him. 

His hair is curly and unruly, dark and wild. Bedhead if bedhead had a different definition. He’s still in his pajamas. Well, half-pajamas, Marti guesses. (Like clockwork, Nico usually tosses his shirt somewhere in the middle of the night.) So he sits there in his soft blue pants, and Marti can see every tendon and muscle from his fingertips to his forearms to his chest move beneath his skin as he plays.

Marti admires him the way one would admire art. Privately. And for a long time.

All the way until the song ends.

“What’s it called?” Marti finally asks, voice low and cracked with the first words of the day. He takes a seat next to Nico on the bench, who slides over to make room for him as if it’s second nature.

“Good morning,” Nico hums, surprised to see him. He leans in, gives Marti a soft kiss he can feel them both smile into.

It still catches Marti off guard, sometimes. How pure joy whitewashes his vision every time Nico kisses him. Makes his head float and his heart float and he’s just… floating. 

“It’s called good morning?” Marti asks against his lips, half actually wondering and half being a smartass.

“No,” Nico laughs, pushing off of him slightly. “I was saying good morning to you. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t,” Marti reassures him, then rests his head on Nico’s bare shoulder. He traces the high keys of the piano after a yawn, fingers pressing each one on the way down, crossing in the motion. A half-hearted descending scale. He has no idea how to play.

“You are so cute.”

Marti feels Nico whisper it into his hair, then place a kiss to the top of his head. He has no choice but to smile, to tip his chin up, to let Nico kiss the corner of his mouth and then his lips. They tingle — his heart does too — and Marti is painfully aware of how in love he is. It hits him out of nowhere, like it usually does. There’s probably a better word for happy, but that sums it up pretty nicely. Marti is _happy._

In the middle of it, Nico wraps his right arm around Marti’s shoulders — hand tracing down his bicep, his elbow, his forearm. Until his palm rests over the top of Marti’s hand on the piano keys. Every finger finds its match. Thumb over thumb. Pinky over pinky.

(Lips over lips — smiling.)

Nico presses down, the middle finger too, and a sharp, charming chord rings out under Marti’s pressure. High and bright. 

Adjusting their hands, Nico finds another chord. And another. Another. Until Marti is playing, under his guise, the same — although slow and simplified — song. Their lips part to breathe with every transition. Longer and longer pauses in between as their heads get light and distracted.

“Is this a lesson? Or?” Mari smiles when it seems as if Nico had forgotten what they were doing. He breaks away; their faces are still close, hands still together. “Because you’re not a very good teacher.”

Offended but not really, Nico tips his chin in and his eyebrows up. But he can’t look serious when he’s love drunk. The ghost of a smile might fade from his lips, but it doesn’t leave his eyes. He takes his free hand and places it over his heart.

“I’m a bad teacher?” He deadpans, mock insulted.

“Yeah,” Marti nods, completely serious. “It’s almost like you don’t want me to learn. You’re very distracting.”

“We can go over scales if you’d rather,” Nico teases him, left hand back on the keys. A quick, melodic, minor ascending. Eyes still on Marti like he’s practiced it a gazillion times. Effortless.

“I’d rather you just entertain me,” Marti hums, leaning in again for another kiss.

Nico turns his head, teasing him, not giving in. He gently nudges Marti’s hand off the keys, gets into position, and plays. Just as soft and sunshiney as before.

“I wrote it for you, you know,” Nico says somewhere in the middle of it. Plain, like an afterthought.

Like he’s not responsible for Marti’s heart fully liquifying, dripping down his ribcage.

“For me?” It’s a whisper. Marti’s voice cracks on the back of his tongue.

Nico stops on a resolving chord, turns to face Marti on the bench — one leg up and bent at the knee. He purses his lips, looks down like he’s shy.

Marti thinks he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” Nico affirms. “For you. And it’s not called _Good Morning—”_ a laugh. He traces a finger over Marti’s hand, lacing them together. “It’s called… the boy who thinks he can make carbonara better than me.”

“It’s not,” Marti huffs with a long snort, rolling his eyes and flicking Nico in the shoulder. “And I can!”

“No,” Nico giggles. “It’s not. I don’t know what to call it. I just think of you every time I play it.”

Marti feels his eyes get big, his head tilts involuntarily. Nico tucks a curl behind his ear, and he feels the remnants of his heart drip down his ribs into his stomach. Beating. Beating everywhere. His whole body pulsing with love.

“But then again, I’m always thinking of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed ❤️  
> Say hi to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


End file.
